


Fireboy

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Body Horror, Drabble, Emetophobia, Gen, Natural Disasters, Stream of Consciousness, Volcanoes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 06:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19901530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Emil Steilsson has a volcano problem. For his human-passing self, this means a serious skin problem and more. Another 1000-word, stream-of-consciousness drabble piece!





	Fireboy

Emil Steilsson was a quiet boy. He tended to keep to himself; as the personification of the tiny island nation of Iceland, following the country's reputation on the world stage, he was not one to interfere or draw attention.

He loved his country. He loved who he was. From its rolling coastal lowlands, icy glaciers and mountains, and endless black-sand beaches to its spontaneously blooming geysers and hot springs, strewn-out fjords, and cascading blue-green waterfalls, he could not think of a more beautiful place to live – or to be. It was a relatively young landmass with a tiny population and a central northern location, close and yet far from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the world. A calm, peaceful, serene place. Being its representative, its very lifeblood, was a blessing for the introverted Emil, who found constant solace in his country's being. It was also a curse.

Iceland's strategic positioning proved to be just as capable of destruction as it was at maintaining the peace with the rest of the world's nations. Where the Atlantic and Arctic oceans met, atop the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, sat his little island; there, too, was where tectonic plates melted, subdued, and crushed together under the frigid water, littering the Icelandic landscape with volcanoes. It was a rare event for an eruption to occur, normally happening only once or twice every five years or so. Yet, when one did happen, the typically tranquil country, along with its personification, experienced hell on earth.

It was such a time when Emil's elder brother, Lukas, personification of Norway, was staying for a brief visit in Reykjavik. The two were walking along the quiet city streets, concrete avenues a bright, welcoming grey complementary to the colorful residential rooftops, when Emil paused, standing in place with an expression of queasiness taking over his face. His stomach churned. The familiar feeling of a soon-to-be eruption overcame him.

"I don't feel so well," he commented, putting his hands on his knees and trying to catch his breath. How much, in this moment, he longed not to breathe; and yet his need to pass as human overtook his desire to become breathless. With each inhalation, his lungs burned, moreso than the simple effect of brisk walking on a day with cold air. They seemed to fill with fire every time he took a breath. As he exhaled, face clearly awash in pain, a thin black smoke rose from his lips. His eyes stung and began to redden, watering over in an attempt to soothe the pain. The tears mixed with a lava-like, teary substance coming from his ducts. Yet he tried to hold back the drops; sooner or later, if they fell, they would singe the fragile, pale skin on his face. "We must go. Now." The two rushed back to Emil's modest home.

Emil could not refuse his stomach its need to purge. Bending over a random patch of ice and snow in his back yard, he began to retch, his thin body writhing with overpowering tremors. He forced his inner muscles to contract, pleading with his insides to free him of the horrible, fiery ache in his abdomen, and flexed every part of himself that he could manage to move relatively painlessly. He could feel the liquid rise in his throat, turning his esophagus into a white-hot hell as his mouth opened in a quick panic. Up and out, Emil vomited lava upon the ground. The magma melted the small snowy patch it landed upon, bubbling and smoking all the while as it melted its base. Liquid molten rock streamed down the Icelander's face, exiting from his eyes and nose, as he breathed out filaments of ash in an attempt to catch his breath in the midst of his violent heaving. The ash particles floated lazily to the ground. 

Lukas could only watch. He knew better than to try to comfort his younger brother; there was no bargaining with the devil currently inside of him. The elder prayed to whatever god would listen that he would never experience this pain again in his nation-life. His last encounter with the pain of an eruption was in 1985, as Beerenberg on the island of Jan Mayen rejected its insides, and it left him exhausted, hurt, and powerless.

"Go away," Emil whispered, his throat – and body – too ensnared in suffering to use any more potential energy. He turned his head towards Lukas, behind him, with lava pouring from his eyes, his face turning red and skin burning. It would, perhaps, begin to slough off, if the eruption would be bad enough; yet, this was only the beginning of it, as the volcano in question, far in the east of Iceland, had only just begun to boil. He wished, so badly, to die. Death would be welcome at a time like this. He could barely even open his mouth to speak, with lava saliva stringing between his lips when they opened; and yet, he felt an urge to vocalize his wishes. "You don't need to see this. Just go."

His delicate, small body began to convulse again as more and more lava pooled in his stomach. Again, Emil heaved, breathing fast and deep despite his silent pleas for his lungs to free him of his immense pain. A gurgling sound as his throat caught, only ending in him bringing his white hands to his mouth and vomiting molten rock into them. His palms, now red and losing layers of skin, opened, letting the viscous liquid ooze onto the ground below. 

Anything. Anything but Iceland, please, let me be any other country, he begged in his mind, the pleas losing value as he repeated them time and time again. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. 

It was no longer worth the fjords, the lagoons, the highs and lows of the mountains and plains. It was no longer worth the peace and tranquility. It was no longer worth being Iceland. Not with this hell.

**Author's Note:**

> I LOVE ICELAND. This was based on this drawing/fanfic I saw for-e-v-e-r ago: https://grorges.tumblr.com/post/78406712831/i-read-a-fanfic-a-while-ago-where-theres-a


End file.
